Tropic of Capricorn

  When the others were gone he’d suddenly shift gears. “You don’t believe in talking like that, do you?” he’d begin. I had to admit I didn’t. “You’re wrong,” he’d continue. “You’ve got to keep in with people, you don’t know when you may need one of these guys. You act on the assumption that you’re free, independent! You act as though you were superior to these people. Well, that’s where you make a big mistake. How do you know where you’ll be five years from now, or even six months from now? You might be blind, you might be run over by a truck, you might be put in the bug-house; you can’t tell what’s going to happen to you. Nobody can. You might be as helpless as a baby …”

  “So what?” I would say.

  “Well, don’t you think it would be good to have a friend when you need one? You might be so god-damned helpless you’d be glad to have some one help you across the street. You think these guys are worthless; you think I’m wasting my time with them. Listen, you never know what a man might do for you some day. Nobody gets anywhere alone …”

  He was touchy about my independence, what he called my indifference. If I was obliged to ask him for a little dough he was delighted. That gave him a chance to deliver a little sermon on friendship. “So you have to have money, too?” he’d say, with a big satisfied grin spreading all over his face. “So the poet has to eat too? Well, well … It’s lucky you came to me, Henry me boy, because I’m easy with you, I know you, you heartless son of a bitch. Sure, what do you want? I haven’t got very much, but I’ll split it with you. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? Or do you think, you bastard, that maybe I ought to give you it all and go out and borrow something for myself? I suppose you want a good meal, eh? Ham and Eggs wouldn’t be good enough, would it? I suppose you’d like me to drive you to the restaurant too, eh? Listen, get up from that chair a minute – I want to put a cushion under your ass. Well, well, so you’re broke! Jesus, you’re always broke – I never remember seeing you with money in your pocket Listen, don’t you ever feel ashamed of yourself? You talk about those bums I hang out with … well listen, mister, those guys never come and bum me for a dime like you do. They’ve got more pride – they’d rather steal it than come and grub it off me. But you, shit, you’re full of high-falutin’ ideas, you want to reform the world and all that crap – you don’t want to work for money, no, not you … you expect somebody to hand it to you on a silver platter. Huh! Lucky there’s guys like me around that understand you. You need to get wise to yourself, Henry. You’re dreaming. Everybody wants to eat, don’t you know that? Most people are willing to work fix it – they don’t lie in bed all day like you and then suddenly pull on their pants and run to the first friend at hand. Supposing I wasn’t here, what would you have done? Don’t answer … I know what you’re going to say. But listen, you can’t go on all your life like that. Sure you talk fine – it’s a pleasure to listen to you. You’re the only guy I know that I really enjoy talking to, but where’s it going to get you? One of these days they’ll lock you up for vagrancy. You’re just a bum, don’t you know that? You’re not even as good as those other bums you preach about. Where are you when I’m in a jam? You can’t be found. You don’t answer my letters, you don’t answer the telephone, you even hide sometimes when I come to see you. Listen, I know – you don’t have to explain to me. I know you don’t want to hear my stories all the time. But shit, sometimes I really have to talk to you. A fucking lot you care though. So long as you’re out of the rain and putting another meal under your belt you’re happy. You don’t think about your friends – until you’re desperate. That’s no way to behave, is it? Say no and I’ll give you a buck. God-damn it, Henry, you’re the only real friend I’ve got but you’re a son of a bitch of a mucker if I know what I’m talking about. You’re just a born good for nothing son of a bitch. You’d rather starve than turn your hand to something useful …”

  Naturally I’d laugh and hold my hand out for the buck he had promised me. That would irritate him afresh. “You’re ready to say anything aren’t you, if only I give you the buck I promised you? What a guy! Talk about morals – Jesus, you’ve got the ethics of a rattlesnake. No, I’m not giving it to you yet, by Christ. I’m going to torture you a little more first. I’m going to make you earn this money, if I can. Listen what about shining my shoes – do that for me, will you? They’ll never get shined if you don’t do it now.” I pick up the shoes and ask him for the brush. I don’t mind shining his shoes, not in the least. But that too seems to incense him. “You’re going to shine them, are you? Well by Jesus, that beats all hell. Listen, where’s your pride – didn’t you ever have any? And you’re the guy that knows everything. It’s amazing. You know so god-damned much that you have to shine your friend’s shoes to worm a meal out of him. A fine pickle! Here, you bastard, here’s the brush! Shine the other pair too while you’re at it.”

  A pause. He’s washing himself at the sink and humming a bit. Suddenly, in a bright, cheerful tone – “How is it out today, Henry? Is it sunny? Listen, I’ve got just the place for you. What do you say to scallops and bacon with a little tartare sauce on the side? It’s a little joint down near the inlet. A day like today is just the day for scallops and bacon, eh what, Henry? Don’t tell me you’ve got something to do … if I haul you down there you’ve got to spend a little time with me, you know that, don’t you? Jesus, I wish I had your disposition. You just drift along, from minute to minute. Sometimes I think you’re a damned sight better off than any of us, even if you are a stinking son of a bitch and a traitor and a thief. When I’m with you the day seems to pass like a dream. Listen, don’t you see what I mean when I say I’ve got to see you sometimes? I go nuts being all by myself all the time. Why do I go chasing around after cunt so much? Why do I play cards all night? Why do I hang out with those bums from the Point? I need to talk to some one, that’s what.”

  A little later at the bay, sitting out over the water, with a shot of rye in him and waiting for the sea food to be served up … “Life’s not so bad if you can do what you want, eh Henry? If I make a little dough I’m going to take a trip around the world – and you’re coming along with me. Yes, though you don’t deserve it, I’m going to spend some real money on you one day. I want to see how you’d act if I gave you plenty of rope. I’m going to give you the money, see … I won’t pretend to lend it to you. We’ll see what’ll happen to your fine ideas when you have some dough in your pocket. Listen, when I was talking about Plato the other day I meant to ask you something: I meant to ask you if you ever read that yarn of his about Atlantis. Did you? You did? Well, what do you think of it? Do you think it was just a yarn, or do you think there might have been a place like that once?”

  I didn’t dare to tell him that I suspected there were hundreds and thousands of continents whose existence past or future we hadn’t even begun to dream about, so I simply said I thought it quite possible indeed that such a place as Atlantis might once have been.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter much one way or the other, I suppose,” he went on, “but I’ll tell you what I think. I think there must have been a time like that once, a time when men were different. I can’t believe that they always were the pigs they are now and have been for the last few thousand years. I think it’s just possible that there was a time when men knew how to live, when they knew how to take it easy and to enjoy life. Do you know what drives me crazy? It’s looking at my old man. Ever since he’s retired he sits in front of the fire all day long and mopes. To sit there like a broken-down gorilla, that’s what he slaved for all his life. Well shit, if I thought that was going to happen to me I’d blow my brains out now. Look around you … look at the people we know … do you know one that’s worth while? What’s all the fuss about, I’d like to know? We’ve got to live, they say. Why? that’s what I want to know. They’d all be a damned sight better off dead. They’re all just so much manure. When the war broke out and I saw them go off to the trenches I said to myself good, maybe they’ll come back with a little sens
e! A lot of them didn’t come back, of course. But the others! – listen, do you suppose they got more human, more considerate? Not at all! They’re all butchers at heart, and when they’re up against it they squeal. They make me sick, the whole fucking lot of ’em. I see what they’re like, bailing them out every day. I see it from both sides of the fence. On the other side it stinks even worse. Why, if I told you some of the things I knew about the judges who condemn these poor bastards you’d want to slug them. All you have to do is look at their faces. Yes sir, Henry, I’d like to think there was once a time when things were different. We haven’t seen any real life – and we’re not going to see any. This thing is going to last another few thousand years, if I know anything about it. You think I’m mercenary. You think I’m cuckoo to want to earn a lot of money, don’t you? Well I’ll tell you, I want to earn a little pile so that I can get my feet out of this muck. I’d go off and live with a nigger wench if I could get away from this atmosphere. I’ve worked my balls off trying to get where I am, which isn’t very far. I don’t believe in work any more than you do – I was trained that way, that’s all. If I could put over a deal, if I could swindle a pile out of one of these dirty bastards I’m dealing with, I’d do it with a clear conscience. I know a little too much about the law, that’s the trouble. But I’ll fool them yet, you’ll see. And when I put it over I’ll put it over big …”

  Another shot of rye as the sea food’s coming along and he starts in again. “I meant that about taking you on a trip with me. I’m thinking about it seriously. I suppose you’ll tell me you’ve got a wife and a kid to look after. Listen when are you going to break off with that battle-axe of yours? Don’t you know that you’ve got to ditch her?” He begins to laugh softly. “Ho! Ho! To think that I was the one who picked her out for you! Did I ever think you’d be chump enough to get hitched up to her? I thought I was recommending you a nice piece of tail and you, you poor slob, you marry her. Ho ho! Listen to me, Henry, while you’ve got a little sense left: don’t let that sour-balled puss muck up your life for you, do you get me? I don’t care what you do or where you go. I’d hate to see you leave town … I’d miss you, I’m telling you that frankly, but Jesus, if you have to go to Africa, beat it, get out of her clutches, she’s no good for you. Sometimes when I get hold of a good cunt I think to myself now there’s something nice for Henry – and I have in mind to introduce her to you, and then of course I forget. But Jesus, man, there’s thousands of cunts in the world you get along with. To think that you had to pick on a mean bitch like that … Do you want more bacon? You’d better eat what you want now, you know there won’t be any dough later. Have another drink, eh? Listen, if you try to run away from me to-day I swear I’ll never lend you a cent … What was I saying? Oh yeah, about that screwy bitch you married. Listen, are you going to do it or not? Every time I see you you tell me you’re going to run away, but you never do it. You don’t think you’re supporting her, I hope? She don’t need you, you sap, don’t you see that? She just wants to torture you. As for the kid … well, shit, if I were in your boots I’d drown it. That sounds kind of mean, doesn’t it, but you know what I mean. You’re not a father. I don’t know what the hell you are … I just know you’re too god-damned good a fellow to be wasting your life on them. Listen, why don’t you try to make something of yourself? You’re young yet and you make a good appearance. Go off somewhere, way the hell off, and start all over again. If you need a little money I’ll raise it for you. It’s like throwing it down a sewer, I know, but I’ll do it for you just the same. The truth is, Henry, I like you a hell of a lot. I’ve taken more from you than I would from anybody in the world. I guess we have a lot in common, coming from the old neighbourhood. Funny I didn’t know you in those days. Shit, I’m getting sentimental …”

  The day wore on like that, with lots to eat and drink, the sun out strong, a car to tote us around, cigars in between, dozing a little on the beach studying the cunts passing by, talking, laughing, singing a bit too – one of many, many days I spent like that with MacGregor. Days like that really seemed to make the wheel stop. On the surface it was jolly and happy go lucky; time passing like a sticky dream. But underneath it was fatalistic, premonitory, leaving me the next day morbid and restless. I knew very well I’d have to make a break some day; I knew very well I was pissing my time away. But I knew also that there was nothing I could do about it – yet. Something had to happen, something big, something that would sweep me off my feet. All I needed was a push, but it had to be some force outside my world that could give me the right push, that I was certain of. I couldn’t eat my heart out, because it wasn’t in my nature. All my life things had worked out all right – in the end. It wasn’t in the cards for me to exert myself. Something had to be left to Providence – in my case a whole lot. Despite all the outward manifestations of misfortune or mismanagement I knew that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. And with a double crown too. The external situation was bad, admitted – but what bothered me more was the internal situation. I was really afraid of myself, of my appetite, my curiosity, my flexibility, my permeability, my malleability, my geniality, my powers of adaptation. No situation in itself could frighten me: I somehow always saw myself sitting pretty, sitting inside a buttercup, as it were and sipping the honey. Even if I were flung in jail I had a hunch I’d enjoy it. It was because I knew how not to resist, I suppose. Other people wore themselves out tugging and straining and pulling; my strategy was to float with the tide. What people did to me didn’t bother me nearly so much as what they were doing to others or to themselves. I was really so damned well off inside that I had to take on the problems of the world. And that’s why I was in a mess all the time. I wasn’t synchronized with my own destiny, so to speak. I was trying to live out the world destiny. If I got home of an evening, for instance, and there was no food in the house, not even for the kid, I would turn right around and go looking for the food. But what I noticed about myself, and that was what puzzled me, was that no sooner outside and hustling for the grub than I was back at the Weltanschauung again. I didn’t think of food for us exclusively, I thought of food in general, food in all its stages, everywhere in the world at that hour, and how it was gotten and how it was prepared and what people did if they didn’t have it and how maybe there was a way to fix it so that everybody would have it when they wanted it and no more rime wasted on such an idiotically simple problem. I felt sorry for the wife and kid, sure, but also felt sorry for the Hottentots and the Australian Bushmen, not to mention the starving Belgians and the Turks and the Armenians. I felt sorry for the human race, for the stupidity of man and his lack of imagination. Missing a meal wasn’t so terrible – it was the ghastly emptiness of the street that disturbed me profoundly. All those bloody houses, one like another, and all so empty and cheerless-looking. Fine paving stones under foot and asphalt in the middle of the street and beautifully-hideously-elegant brown-stone stoops to walk up, and yet a guy could walk about all day and all night on this expensive material and be looking for a crust of bread. That’s what got me. The incongruousness of it. If one could only dash out with a dinner bell and yell “Listen, listen, people, I’m a guy what’s hungry. Who wants shoes shined? Who wants the garbage brought out? Who wants the drainpipes cleaned out?” If you could only go out in the street and put it to them clear like that. But no, you don’t dare to open your trap. If you tell a guy in the street you’re hungry you scare the shit out of him, he runs like hell. That’s something I never understood. I don’t understand it yet. The whole thing is so simple – you just say Yes when some one comes up to you. And if you can’t say Yes you can take him by the arm and ask some other bird to help you out. Why you have to don a uniform and kill men you don’t know, just to get that crust of bread, is a mystery to me. That’s what I think about, more than about whose trap it’s going down or how much it costs. Why should I give a fuck about what anything costs? I’m here to live, not to calculate. And that’s just what the bastards don’t
want you to do – to live! They want you to spend your whole life adding up figures. That makes sense to them. That’s reasonable. That’s intelligent. If I were running the boat things wouldn’t be so orderly perhaps, but it would be gayer, by Jesus! You wouldn’t have to shit in your pants over trifles. Maybe there wouldn’t be macadamized roads and streamlined cars and loudspeakers and gadgets of a million-billion varieties, maybe there wouldn’t even be glass in the windows, maybe you’d have to sleep on the ground, maybe there wouldn’t be French cooking and Italian cooking and Chinese cooking, maybe people would kill each other when their patience was exhausted and maybe nobody would stop them because there wouldn’t be any jails or any cops or judges, and there certainly wouldn’t be any cabinet ministers or legislatures because there wouldn’t be any goddamned laws to obey or disobey, and maybe it would take months and years to trek from place to place, but you wouldn’t need a visa or a passport or a carte d’identité because you wouldn’t be registered anywhere and you wouldn’t bear a number and if you wanted to change your name every week you could do it because it wouldn’t make any difference since you wouldn’t own anything except what you could carry around with you and why would you want to own anything when everything would be free? During this period when I was drifting from door to door, job to job, friend to friend, meal to meal, I did try nevertheless to rope off a little space for myself which might be an anchorage; it was more like a lifebuoy in the midst of a swift channel. To get within a mile of me was to hear a huge dolorous bell tolling. Nobody could see the anchorage – it was buried deep in the bottom of the channel. One saw me bobbing up and down on the surface, rocking gently sometimes or else swinging backwards and forwards agitatedly. What held me down safely was the big pigeon-holed desk which I put in the parlour. This was the desk which had been in the old man’s tailoring establishment for the last fifty years, which had given birth to many bills and many groans, which had housed strange souvenirs in its compartments, and which finally I had filched from him when he was ill and away from the establishment; and now it stood in the middle of the floor in our lugubrious parlour on the third floor of a respectable brown-stone house in the dead centre of the most respectable neighbourhood in Brooklyn. I had to fight a tough battle to install it there, but I insisted that it be there in the midmost midst of the shebang. It was like putting a mastodon in the centre of a dentist’s office. But since the wife had no friends to visit her and since my friends didn’t give a fuck if it were suspended from the chandelier, I kept it in the parlour and I put all the extra chairs we had around it in a big circle and then I sat down comfortably and I put my feet up on the desk and dreamed of what I would write if I could write. I had a spittoon alongside of the desk, a big brass one from the same establishment, and I would spit in it now and then to remind myself that it was there. All the pigeon-holes were empty and all the drawers were empty; there wasn’t a thing on the desk or in it except a sheet of white paper on which I found it impossible to put so much as a pothook.